The Eagles Prophecy

'Nothing doing, friend,' Macro replied. 'We're centurions, on active service. Let us through.'

'Centurions?' The gatekeeper looked doubtful, and Macro drew back his cape to show his army-issue sword and the unmistakable shape of his marching yoke. The gatekeeper glanced at Cato, who, in his soaked state, looked even younger than his years. 'Him too?'

'Him too. Now let us in.'

'Very well.' The gatekeeper nodded to a pair of men at the far end of the arch, and they pushed one of the gates in just enough to admit the two travellers. Macro nodded his thanks and trudged past the gatekeeper.

The marching barracks were a short distance from the town gate. A small arch led into an open yard lined with stables on one side and barrack blocks along the other three walls. Light glowed through cracks in the window shutter and spilled on to the flagstones in dull slants. A handful of covered torches provided enough illumination to show where they were going as Macro and Cato gave their details to the clerk at the gate and were given directions to one of the officers' rooms. As they crossed the yard Macro glanced at the vehicles in the wagon park: a neat line of supply wagons and there at the far end, a smaller more refined shape. He drew up so suddenly that Cato walked straight into his back.

'Shit! What did you do that for?'

'Quiet!' Macro snapped. He raised his hand and pointed. 'Look!'

Cato glanced round. 'Oh…'

There stood the carriage. Its lines were unmistakable. It was the same one that had sent them sprawling into the ditch a few miles down the road to Rome.

06 The Eagles Prophecy

CHAPTER EIGHT

Cato hurried after Macro as his friend crashed through the door of the barrack block and strode into the mess. It was a large room, lit and heated by wall-mounted iron braziers. There was a bar and several tables at which a score of officers were sitting. Every one of them had turned to look at the man who had made such a dramatic entrance. A flash of lightning silhouetted Macro's stocky shape in the door frame, while Cato's bleached image stood out behind him. Then the lightning was gone and Macro's expression was lit by the rosy glow of the braziers. He smiled.

'Evening, gents! Centurion Lucius Cornelius Macro at your service. Now, can one of you tell me which cunt owns the fancy carriage parked outside?'

For a moment no one moved or spoke, until Cato caught up with his friend and pushed his way into the mess and out of the rain. The young centurion dumped his pack and sneezed so hard he bent double, and broke the spell. Macro nodded at him.

'This is Centurion Marcus Licinius Cato. He can't help it. Now then, as I was saying…'

The barman waved Macro towards the counter. 'Take a seat and have a drink, sir, and close the door.'

Once the filthy weather had been shut out, the two newcomers stood dripping on the threshold, under the silent gaze of the other officers. Out of the corner of his eye Cato noticed a man rise from one of the tables against the far wall. He hurried over to a side door and disappeared down an unlit corridor. The barman set up two cups and filled them carefully from a large jug. 'There you go. Come and drink, and we can talk without spoiling the evening for my other customers.'

As the two centurions leaned up against the counter the barman shouted for one of his slaves and a thin child with a pinched face scurried out of the storeroom, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

'Take these officers' packs to one of the rooms. When you've done that, come back for their cloaks. They'll need drying. Now go.'

The slave boy nodded meekly, scurried round the bar and headed for the two packs by the door. As Cato watched, the boy hefted his pack with a strained expression and staggered from the room under the weight.

'Now then, sir,' the barman was saying to Macro, 'if you want to drink in my establishment, then you'll behave, understand? Otherwise, I'll have to ask you to leave.'

'What makes you think I'd leave?' Macro smiled sweetly.

Without taking his eyes off Macro the barman called out, 'Ursa. Out here, now.'

A huge shadow filled the entrance to the storeroom and then a great blond head ducked into the bar. When the man stood up, his straw locks seemed to brush against the rafters. His arms were thick and hard, and his tunic stretched tightly around his huge chest and over his broad shoulders.

'Master?'

'Stick around while I talk to these gentlemen.'

Ursa nodded, and switched his gaze to the two centurions at the counter, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. The barman turned back to Macro.

'If I say leave, you leave. Got that?'

'Oh, absolutely,' Cato nodded.

Macro shot him a look of disgust before he turned his attention back to the barman. 'Well? The carriage?'

'Belongs to a senior officer. On his way north. If you want to know anything more you'll have to speak to those men over there.' He pointed towards the table from which Cato had seen the man depart moments earlier. The remaining three customers watched the two centurions closely.

'Speak to them, by all means,' continued the barman,'but keep it civil or I'll have Ursa sort you out.'

'Fair enough,' Macro replied. 'And thanks for the drink, friend. Come on, Cato.'

They eased their way through the room as the other officers started to talk again, low voices swiftly rising to the former level of drunken good humour. Macro drew up in front of the table and nodded at the men seated on the far bench. 'Evening.'

They nodded back.

'Chatty lot, aren't you? Mind telling me who you are? Who you work for?'

They exchanged glances before one of them cleared his throat. 'We're not at liberty to discuss that, sir.'

'Let me guess.' Macro cocked his head to one side as he appraised the men. 'Too well dressed to be common legionaries. And too afraid of a fight to be anything other than Praetorian Guards. Am I right?'

The man nodded, then spoke quickly. 'Yes, sir. And you know the regulations. We raise a fist against a superior, even one from the legions, and we're dead men.'

Macro smiled.'What do you say we go outside and settle this without any question of rank? Just us and you three.'

'Settle what exactly, sir?'

'This.' Macro indicated the mud plastered to his tunic.'A little souvenir from the ditch you madmen forced us into back on the Flaminian Way a couple of hours ago.'

The guardsman's eyes widened as he recalled the incident. 'That was you? I thought you two must be tramps. Please accept my apologies, sir. No harm done.'

'Not yet. Now then, are you going to settle this like a man?'

'Settle what, Centurion?' a voice called from the doorway leading into the dark corridor. Macro and Cato turned round and saw a dim figure emerging from the shadows. The man paused.

'Well, well. It is a small world indeed. Wouldn't you agree, Centurion Macro?'

'Vitellius…' Macro whispered.

'That's right.' Vitellius chuckled lightly as he emerged into the full glow of the mess room. The guardsmen leaped to their feet, the bench grating across the floor beneath them as it was forced away from the table. 'But I would prefer it if you addressed me by my proper rank. I take a dim view of insubordination. You'd do well to remember that.'

'Oh, really… sir?'

'Yes. Really.' Vitellius fixed him with a cold stare for an instant, before the calculating smile returned to his lips. 'I gather you wanted a word with me. Something to do with my carriage, I understand.'

'Your carriage?' Cato's eyebrows rose in surprise.

'Yes, mine. Good evening to you too, Centurion Cato. Good to see you here. Both of you. Just like old times. We must have a drink. Barman!'

'Yes, sir?'

'A jar of your best wine and three goblets. Goblets, mind.'